


The lost and the wandering

by Polemokrateia



Category: Ancient History RPF, Classical Greece and Rome History & Literature RPF, Hellenistic Religion & Lore, Punic Wars RPF
Genre: Afterlife, Gen, dialogues, psychopomp, the Punic Wars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-01
Updated: 2018-04-01
Packaged: 2019-04-16 22:38:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14174883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polemokrateia/pseuds/Polemokrateia
Summary: Some things change for Hannibal, some things will always stay the same.





	The lost and the wandering

This should have been the end, really.  
Granted, most people subscribe to the belief that there is some kind of continuity after death. Immortality of the soul - or souls. Rebirth, existence as a shade. Rest with the blessed Refaim, ravenous Mot's dismal city. Anyhing.  
The carthaginian had expected nothingness. Not because he necessarily denied the existence of an afterlife, but because it would have been redundant for him. He had been given a chance. He tried. Failed in all the ways that mattered. End of story.  
What happened instead was almost a disappointment.  
Consciousness: present. Awareness of one's surroundings: vague, but present. Ability to influence physical objects: non-existent, apparently.  
Something was happening in the world of the living. People were making noise.  
Irrelevant.  
Living beings, works of human hands, even plants - all seemed no more than an echo.  
Unworked stone, earth, clay - those seemed more real. The sky, too, when he eventually decided to take a look.  
When had he started walking? Was there any destination he should...  
No. There was nowhere to go. He could not and would not face the Gods of his father. Whatever answers he could have given them would sound hollow, even if they don’t seem so to him.  
So, he walked. On, and on, unable to tell one echo of a tree from another. Further. Further. Never getting tired, never resting.  
Eventually, his mind registered somebody's presence. A travelling companion? Light of foot, swift. Too vivid and real to be human.  
When he catches up to Hannibal, the latter cannot help but laugh. Winged sandals. Wide-brimmed hat. That serpent-entwined staff – the kerykeion. But of course.  
Had he seen Hermes in a dream before? Or had that dream been a fiction for the benefit of the army and prospective allies? 

\- It seems to me, - the god grins, - that what we have here is a shade impatient to find out what happens to shades when they stay too long in the world of the living and gradually go mad. Believe me, you will not enjoy the experience.  
\- And it must be your turn to pick up stray ghosts before that happens, is it, god of Kyllene?  
\- Close enough. Someone here is lost and in need of a bit of guidance, and that can't be me. Besides, you are not in the right state of mind to face those who should, by all rights, be taking care of your afterlife. So - follow me, will you?  
The carthaginian doesn't argue. He follows the psychopomp quietly, and they pass some more grey shrubs and rocks that are vaguely reminiscent of bethel stones but are not, and the sky changes colour several times. Truly an exciting trip one would recommend to friends.  
Until they reach a river. No - the river. It's angry, and hateful, and bitterly cold. A shrivelled boatman waits for those who would cross to rhe other side.  
Hannibal has no coins for Charon, of course, but his guide produces the requisite oboli, pats the ancient spirit's shoulder, and they board the vessel.  
Something has been cut - flimsy threads still connecting the dead man to a world he didn't belong in anymore. That is all he remembers about the Styx itself.  
The realm of Hades, of course, is grey, with a hint of grey, and some grey to bring out the overall greyness of it all. Hermes stands out like a song by Pindar among a schoolboy's stumbling practice verses.  
\- So, you have not been initiated into the mysteries of Demeter and Kore, or those of Dionysos, - he states.  
\- No, I haven't. Ending up here of all places is... unexpected, to say the least.  
\- Thought you would be better at adapting to twists of fate, son of Hamilcar. Why so gloomy? We have almost reached your destinaion.  
\- Few people would find that a reason for celebration.  
\- Yes, but was Solon not right when he said that a man can only be called happy or unhappy once he has reached the end of his earthly road? Therefore, here and now is the only fitting time to rejoice or despair.  
The god regards his charge with a mix of curiosity and amusement.  
\- Are your regrets so numerous?  
Hannibal considers.  
Once again, he walks the streets of a lively city, meant to be the heart of Barcid Iberia, ruined by a few clever moves.  
He speaks with his brothers again, but one is merely a head missing a body, and the other nothing more than a voice.  
He sees Qart-Hadasht's proud ships burn.  
All those things - and so many more - seem like reasons for bitter regret, of course. They are shame. They are pain. Failure.  
But had the carthaginian lived again, had he faced the same choices he had to make a second time - he would still have done what he thought had to be done.  
Rome would still be a threat, ready to devour everything that stood in it's way. Enemies would still be enemies, and allies as well. Individual strategies, tiny details, crossroads that had seemed so crucial before, did nothing to change the story as a whole.  
\- I would have done it all again. Tanit help me, I would have.  
\- Some would point out, that provoking conflict one has little chance of winning is less then prudent.  
\- True. What would acting prudently have resulted in, then?  
\- You are confusing me with Phoibos, I have no idea. But what I do know, is that Rome's hunger is far too great. It would not stop, as long as it had the means to subdue others.  
\- Sounds like you are not very fond of the wolf cubs. How come? They seem to honour you and your kin well enough.  
The psychopomp shrugs. How can he explain it – finding the company of rowdy gauls and Iberians less alien than that of supposedly civilized men and women of the city that unconsciously aspires to become the center of the world?  
The god of travelers knows when he is not welcome.  
\- Form without substance. The kind of order they want to impose on as much of the oikumene as possible is the exact opposite of what made Hellas... well, Hellas.  
\- Made? You sound resigned to the end.  
\- The end has already happened. Those wolf cubs are growing into adult predators. And their prey is old, weak, often blind to the threat.  
\- If only some mighty immortal beings existed, capable of upending the status quo.  
\- Well, that stung. But overt interference is not something we do anymore. Besides, you have no right to complain, you know.  
\- No, I don't. But I can, and I will.  
\- It's my own fault, for not leaving you to your own devices. But tell me, Hannibal son of Hamilcar, during our voyage here, did you feel the need to drink from any of the streams or rivers?  
\- Not really. But, now that you mention it - I am thirsty.  
With a smile, Hermes indicates a small body of water, as grey as everything in the realm, surrounded by poplar trees.  
His charge turns towards the spring. Approaches it. Memory helpfully provides a name: Lethe, Forgetfulness. Is that it?  
Seems likely. And, to be honest, the carthaginian would have resisted, fought to hold on to the past. But he found that he. Wanted. To. Drink.  
And so he went, and drank, and the water was refreshing and cold, and his throat, apparently, had been parched the whole time.  
Nothing happened. After a few additional sips - still nothing.  
\- Psykhagogos, something is wrong. Is Lethe not meant to make one forget?  
\- Oh, Lethe certainly is. But we passed Lethe some time ago. This is Mnemosyne. Memory.  
He chuckles a bit, and continues.  
\- I was not certain which one would draw you. Normally, those initiated into the Mysteries know to restrain themselves and find Mnemosyne. The ignorant, or the weary, or the small - they succumb to Lethe's call. But some shades are strong enough to find the fountain of Remembrance on their own. Men and women who, deep down, have no desire to lose themselves, and whom the world just cannot let go.  
\- But I am still confined here, correct?  
\- Yes, you ungrateful barbarian. Do not push your luck! Not every being here is as personable as I am. And Minos, Aeacus and Rhadamanthys are harsh enough even when not annoyed, so keep that in mind.  
\- Good thing I did not wait to ask the judges, then. And... you are right. I am being ungrateful. Thank you, Hermes Koinos, shepherd of the lost.  
\- You are welcome, Carthaginian. I am glad you have retained your face and voice.  
He waves, turns around theatrically and vanishes.  
Hannibal reflects on beginnings, endings, and how often they blend into each other.


End file.
